


The Play's The Thing

by fineandwittie



Category: Will (TV 2017)
Genre: AU where Will runs into Marlowe first, M/M, Topcliff will only appear as a reference not as a character, the play's the thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: What if Will had run into Marlowe, before he managed to find The Theater, before even he had run into the thieving street rat?





	1. Chapter 1

London seemed to Will the center of the world. It was so much larger and more colorful than his home in Stratford, so much louder. People, the likes of which he’d never seen before, filled every corner. He stumbled through, too wide-eyed to worry that he might be the target of mischief. 

He got turned around at the marketplace, helplessly lost. The theater should have been on the next corner, but it was not. He took another turn and ran right into someone. The impact would have been strong enough to throw him to the ground, had the gentleman not caught him round the waist. 

He looked up at the stranger. The man was beautiful, all sharp angles and burning intensity. His lips were pink and full. Will’s gaze was drawn to them, before he forced himself to meet the stranger’s gaze.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” The man’s voice was lilting, almost mocking, and that plush mouth curled into a smirk.

“Only a poet seeking the playhouse.” Will demurred and tried to back out of the man’s arms. His grip tightened and Will’s breath caught. They were in the street, in broad daylight, embracing like lovers. Surely this was dangerous?

“A poet? Then we are well met, stranger. I shall help you find this theater that you seek.”

Will smiled and did back out of the man’s grasp, then. “I do not seek a particular theater, sir. Only, I have a play and I would like to try my luck. My name is Will Shakespeare and I’ve newly arrived in London, you see.”

“Oh, I definitely saw. Well, then, Master Shakespeare, I shall take you to The Theatre and to James Burbage, for I cannot take you to The Rose. I could not handle the rivalry, should you be apt at the craft.”

“Rivalry?” Will followed the man as he wound his way through the back alleys.

“I am a playwright. My name is Marlowe.”

Will stopped dead in the street and it took Marlowe a moment to realize he’d lost his tail. “Marlowe? You’re Christopher Marlowe?”

Marlowe arched an eyebrow and that smirk twisted his mouth again. Will couldn’t help but glance at it. “I am.”

“Sir, I can but aspire to a talent such as yours. I have seen both _Tamburlaine_ and _Dido, Queen of Carthage_ and loved them well.”

Marlowe tilted his head and his smirk grew. “I cannot say that I am flattered, Master Shakespeare, for I have not read your work, but come. To The Theater and we shall present it to James Burbage and see what we can make of it.”

“You cannot know how grateful I would be for such an introduction.” Will’s grin was nearly blinding. He clutched his bag and pressed the letter in his pocket closer to his chest. 

The Theatre, when they finally arrived, seemed to be in some sort of uproar. Will couldn’t make out what the fuss was about, but Marlowe’s arrival seemed to quiet it a little. 

“Kit!” He was greeted by a pretty young blonde woman. “Have you brought Father a new play?”

“Of a sort, Mistress Alice. Can you fetch him for us? And perhaps the rest of the family?” He smiled at her and she rolled her eyes, before disappearing up a set of stairs.

Will was standing on the edge of the stage, almost afraid to come further in to a world of which he’d only dreamed. Marlowe smirked at him and raised an eyebrow, as though to say, “Well? Are you coming?”

Will imagined he looked every inch the country bumpkin, with his wide eyes and gaping mouth, but he couldn’t help it. He was presenting his play to a theater troupe. He had made acquaintance with Christopher Marlowe, himself!

James Burbage was a large man, though not exceptionally tall. He glowered around him, but saved an especial scowl for Marlowe. “My play. You were writing me a play.”

Marlowe shook his head, still smirking. “I have no play. I’ve been engaged by The Rose on a permanent basis. He pays me whether I write or not.” Burbage opened his mouth to bellow, no doubt, but Marlowe raised a hand. “But. I have brought you a playwright. I propose that we all listen to what he has to say and then you can berate me if you will.”

Burbage narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “And who is this playwright?”

Marlowe reached back and drew Will forward. “Master William Shakespeare.”

The short red-beard behind Burbage leered and made an obscene gesture with one hand. “Shakes-shaft, is it?”

Will frowned at him. “No. It isn’t. You heard him aright. My name is Shakespeare.”

The man laughed. “Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Will Kemp, at your service, Master Shakespeare.”

Will blinked and stared for a moment before shaking himself. “Well met, sir.”

“Alright, alright. We don’t have time to dawdle.” Burbage shooed Kemp away. “Let’s hear it. GATHER ROUND EVERYONE.” 

His bellow echoed in the theater space, causing Will to grin. Marlowe had faded into the background while he traded barbs with Kemp. Will looked around for him now, but it was as though he had vanished. Will wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse. There was so much he’d like to discuss with the man, but the idea of Christopher Marlowe listening to him read his play was overwhelming.

Will drew the pages from his bag, cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. He could do this. Marlowe thought he could. He read.

*********************

Marlowe, it turned out, had not vanished. He’d merely moved out of sight behind one of the stage curtains. He watched Will from the shadows as he read his work. There was a fire in this country bumpkin. A hunger that would not be satisfied by anything less than success. Will Shakespeare intended to be London’s best playwright and, Marlowe thought as he watched, he just might succeed. 

The play was rough. It needed some work, but it was good. Very good, with the potential to be great. If Will had a little guidance. Marlowe was very willing to offer that guidance. In no small part because Will Shakespeare was gorgeous. 

Marlowe’s fingers itched to run through Will’s riot of curls. He wants to taste that mouth. He wondered if Will had ever bedded a man before. If he’d ever felt the desire to do so. He’d seen the way Will’s gaze was drawn to his mouth and considered that his chances of claiming a kiss were good.

He let Will’s words wash over him. The man had talent, certainly. Baxter was whining in the background, interrupting with utter nonsense that he passed as criticism. Marlowe snorted and stepped from the curtains as Will dipped a bow, to let them know the play was done. He raised his hands to applaud.

Will jerked up to look at him, a faint blush staining his cheeks. Oh yes, thought Marlowe, a very good chance.

“Well done, Will.” He smiled and Will returned it, looking a bit dazed. “It is a bit rough, but it is an excellent start.”

Will clutched the pages and nodded. “I am will to make what changes are needed.”

Marlowe noted the careful wording of that statement and grinned. He turned to Burbage. “Well, sir? What say you? Say the play is mine and you know people will come to it. We can introduce Will after.”

Burbage snorted. “And you don’t think they’ll riot when they find out they've been duped?”

Marlowe opened his mouth to reply, but Will beat him to it. “Tell them that I am…Kit’s disciple.” He swallowed at the use of the nickname and Marlowe watched in delight as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Tell them that I have worked with him. It’s not too much of a stretch and then would make the play his after a fashion.”

Burbage’s daughter stepped forward. “They will accept it. The idea is good. The play is good, which is what we need.”

Will’s eyes went to her and traced the lines of her body. Which was not acceptable at all. Marlowe stepped forward and slung an arm around Will’s waist. Those wide eyes were back on Kit again, where they belonged. “I will introduce him to the crowds myself.”

Will leaned into him, though Kit could not be sure whether it was done with conscious thought or not. Alice caught the movement and sighed, looking away. Her brother, Richard, came up on Will’s other side and dropped his arm around Will’s shoulders. “We need a play, Father. What’s the harm?”

Burbage groaned. “Fine. We’ll do it.” 

The troupe cheered. Richard moved away, snagging the arm of another man and pulling him into an impromptu dance. Alice took a seat at a small table just inside the stage curtain to begin copying parts.

“But!” The cheering died away. “I am not paying him your commission, Master Marlowe.”

Kit shrugged a shoulder. “Half, then? He is very good and willing to make changes as is needed.”

The man snarled, but finally agreed. Will sagged against Kit, with an exhale. “Thank you.” The words were soft, meant only for Kit’s ears.

Kit turned and met Will’s gaze. “The pleasure is mine.”

Will’s breath hitched, but he smiled. “No. I mean it. I have a family in Stratford to take care of and no money for lodging here.”

_Oh how perfect_ , whispered that wicked little voice in the back of Kit’s mind. “You must stay with me, then. I have plenty of room and I think we understand each other, you and I. We are both men of letters.”

Will leaned back and stared at Kit. “I would not presume to trouble you.”

Kit grinned. “No trouble at all, I promise you.”

Will’s face broke into a beautiful smile and he threw his arms around Kit’s neck. “Thank you!”

Kit laughed, hugging him briefly, before pushing him away. Pleasure later. For now, there was work to do now. 

And something in Will’s breast pocket that felt uncomfortably like Catholic prayer beads.


	2. Chapter 2

Will fell into the bed Kit showed him and was asleep immediately. He barely even had time to register the sheer size of the house he would apparently be living in, before collapsing into bed. The day had been exhausting, making edits, rushing them to the censor, and copying parts. But Will was certain he’d never experience a greater rush. His play had been performed on the London stage.

He woke late the next morning and stretched languidly before remembering where he was. He sat up as though the bed might bite him and looked around the room suspiciously. Surely this was all too good to be true? He couldn’t possibly be living in Christopher Marlowe’s house.

He dressed quickly, looking around for a place to hide the letter. He glanced at the small fireplace, but dismissed the idea. He had to give the letter to Cousin Southwell. He’d discharge his duty and then have no more contact with him. It was simply too dangerous. There had been whispers in the marketplace yesterday. Whispers loud enough that even a newly arrive country bumpkin heard them. Topcliff was hunting Southwell and meant to gut him there in the market so everyone could see. Will could not handle another execution like that. 

Eventually, he settled with shoving the letter and his rosary under his mattress. After, he wandered down the hallway, trying to remember how he’d gotten to his room. The house was enormous, full of great stone ceilings and hallways that he didn’t dare explore. There were so many rooms! Will had never been inside a building with so many rooms. Kit was surely the wealthiest playwright who ever penned a word. 

Finally, nearly an hour, he found his way to the dinning room. 

Breakfast was laid out and Marlowe himself was sitting at the table, a plate of toast and jam at one elbow and quill in hand. His bare feet were up on the table and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. 

Will’s gaze lingered on the ink that peppered Kit’s chest. All that bare skin…He swallowed, his throat tight, and shifted on his feet. Kit looked up at the sound and grinned. “Will, come! Eat. Today, we work.”

Will grinned, eyes alight, as he sat and served himself. “You’re working on a new play, then?”

Kit laughed. The sound was edged in what sounded like tears. “I am always writing new play. Whether it will be finished, whether it won’t be shit is a different matter entirely.”

Will scoffed and popped a sausage in his mouth, savoring the luxury of eating meat so early in the day. “You are Christopher Marlowe. I don’t imagine anything you write is shit.”

“You flatter me, darling.” Kit shook his head and opened his mouth to say more, when they both caught the sound of approaching footsteps. A small man, hardly taller than Burbage’s daughter and slight, came in. He had a pointed goatee and dressed as though he had money. When he caught sight of Will his face grew dark with anger. 

“Who is this, Kit? Another street rat you’ve brought home to fuck? Or is he a player? He has the look.” The man’s voice was snide and cutting. 

Will scowled at him and cut Kit’s answer off. “Pardon, but you do realize that I can both hear you and understand you? If you wished to know me, you should ask me or beg an introduction, which doesn’t include felonious accusations of buggery in it.” Will stood, head high, and stared at the man, who flushed. “My name is William Shakespeare and I am no one’s whore. Kit was kind enough to offer me a place to sleep when I had none, after The Theater performed my new play last night.”

Kit watched this interchange with a smile on his lips and a fire in his eyes. Will was so very beautiful when he was angry. “Thomas, dear, you’ve no need to be insulting. What brings you here so early?”

Thomas arched an eyebrow at Kit, mouth still twisted into a sneer. “I came to warn you. Topcliff is once again questioning your worth to her majesty. My uncle, so far, has not listened, but there is only so much one can ignore before doubt creeps in. You must give him something.”

Kit’s face went blank and he flicked a glance at Will before turning back to Thomas. “You can tell Walsingham and Topcliff to go to the devil.” He sighed. “Alright. Fine. My thanks for the warning.”

Thomas frowned and left, his heels clicking angrily on the stones.

Will was trying to stay calm. He knew he should give Kit the benefit of the doubt. The man had been nothing but kind to him. But it sounded very much like Kit was working for the most dangerous man in London.

Kit turned to him once Thomas was gone with a smile. “Pay him no mind. Tommy is the jealous sort.”

Will stared back, jaw tight, trying to think how to phrase the question he had to ask. “And you, Christopher Marlowe? What sort are you?”

Kit frowned. “I do not take your meaning.”

Will exhaled. “It sounded very much you are working for Topcliff.”

“Oh. That.” Kit waved a hand. “Yes, I am Topcliff’s spy. Through no choice of my own, to save my neck, I give him the necks of others.”

“Shall you give him mine, then?” Will couldn’t keep the words back and couldn’t stop the accusation in his tone. He wanted to snatch them out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth. 

If he was executed, what would happen to Anne and the children?

Kit snorted. “No, Will. I will not be giving him yours. I don’t care what religion you follow, thought you don’t hide those beads you carry terribly well. I felt them when you embraced me yesterday. I advise more care. I bring him only news of Robert Southwell.”

“Who is my cousin.”

Kit froze, and turned to stare at Will. “Excuse me?”

Will squared his shoulders and took a step toward the table. “Robert Southwell is my cousin.”

Kit sighed, seeming to deflate, and slumped back in his chair. “What a bother. You realize that he is responsible for many deaths. Topcliff might swing the ax or the torture implement as the case may be, but Robert Southwell send them along to the headsman.”

Will frowned and dropped into the chair that he’d vacated earlier. “What do you mean?”

Kit’s smirk was back, but the fire in his eyes was banked. He looked almost…sad, weary. “Will, you cousin insights people to take action. He demands absolute loyalty, not to God, but to himself. His disciples won’t betray him, even unto death. And he places them in front of himself as shields.”

Will was shaking his head. “No. I…I grew up with Robert. He wouldn’t…Not Robert.”

Kit laugh, a sharp bark of noise. “Oh yes Robert. He has been often close to capture and invariably the family that he stays with ends up jailed or at the end of a hangman’s noose. I have seen children imprisoned, because Southwell let it be so. He believes himself too far above them. He claims it is God’s will and that he is too necessary to the cause to sacrifice. He writes pamphlets and stirs up chaos that only ends in blood and tears.” Kit paused. “I have read some of his writing. He is apt. Very apt, but he is also a very angry man. I see myself when I read his words. Angry, too much full of his own importance, and not willing to die for his cause. I recognize it well.”

Will’s breathing was shaky and there were tears pooling in his eyes. Kit watched him for a moment, before reaching out to brush away the first tear that dared escape. Will looked as though he were breaking apart. He must have known, Kit thought, somewhere deep inside his soul that Robert Southwell was capable for that. “I’m sorry, darling.”

Will attempted a smile and caused several more tears to slip free. They spilled down his cheeks and Kit caught them as well. Will was beautiful when he wept. “It’s not your fault. I’m glad you told me. I’m glad to know.”

Kit shook his head and leaned in. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I’m sorry I caused you pain, though you are lovely in your grief.”

Will blinked and his eyes grew wide. His gaze dropped down to Kit’s mouth and then back up to his eyes. Kit let his hand fall away. Will leaned forward just a little, as though chasing after it. “So Thomas was…being serious?”

Kit flinched. “No. Tommy was being jealous. I’ve…I’ve slept with him before and he thinks he has a claim on me because of it.”

Will tilted his head, his tongue peeping out to wet his lips. “And does he? Does he have a claim?”

Will and he were now so close they were sharing air. It was becoming difficult to focus on Will’s face. “No. He does not. Why?”

Will smiled.


End file.
